What Happened After
by save the wildcats
Summary: What happened after the end of the book? What if the story kept going? What if there was just one more chapter? This summary sounds boring, I know, but then again, so do most.


**This was something I had to write for school, and I liked it, and everyone who read it said it was pretty good, so I thought I might as well upload it. It picks up right where the book leaves off. Please review, muchos gracias! (And I don't own To Kill a Mockingbird, juuuuust in case you couldn't have guessed. So don't sue me, much obliged.)**

Chapter 32

The next day, the rain was cleared and the sky was a pale gray, like faded dust. The streets were stagnant pools of melted red. As I stood outside the house, I could see my distorted reflection in the water. I was surprised to see how small I looked, how meek. After all I'd been through, I'd forgotten how little I was. I felt . . . older. Did any other little girls my age feel this way about life? As if now they understood?

Jem still wasn't awake, but Atticus said he would be soon, and then he would be very hungry, as well as extremely curious as to last night's events. Calpurnia and Atticus had been sitting with him for the past thirty minutes, waiting to comfort him when he woke. Aunt Alexandra was in her room- whether asleep or brooding I did not know. I wasn't about to wait for Jem. Now that I was absolutely positive he wasn't dead, I decided he didn't really need me there, maybe he'd be happier without me there when he came to. So I'd took off to the street. I still had a lot of thinking to do.

I slowly waded into the deeper part of the road, where it was up past my ankles. I didn't care; if Auntie shrieked when she saw my muddied britches, that was her own business. I paused outside of Mrs. Dubose's house, the small murky waves following me dying to a halt. I had used to think Mrs. Dubose was the devil in the form of an old lady. The breath inside me waited as I remembered. I had once thought she was going to kill Jem with the pistol I believed was wrapped up in her shawl.

I slowly rotated on the spot. It seemed so long ago. I had been slight and stupid then. Back then, I had no doubts about anything I heard, no doubts that the heat you felt on a lone road was a lost soul, no doubts that Indian-head pennies would protect you from misfortune, no doubts that Boo Radley ate cats for sustenance. . . . I stopped rotating. I was facing the Radley house.

Didn't it all come back to Boo? Isn't that how the story began? I wouldn't _be _here, standing in this grimy pool of a street if it weren't for Boo. He had saved me and Jem. And now we would forget that. Say Bob Ewell fell on his knife. Let Boo go back into his dark house, stay there for the rest of his life. Never say goodbye. Never even thank him . . .

I finally realized what I had to do. Grabbing at my pantlegs so they wouldn't trip me, I ran back home, a rooster-tail of water splashing behind me. I stopped, panting, outside the door, my hands on my knees. I started to turn the knob, before realizing that the intelligent thing to do was to roll up my pants, so Auntie wouldn't see how soppy they were. After this small task was accomplished, I burst into the house.

I found the whole family seated at the dining room table. Jem, his hair ruffled, still in his wrinkled clothes from last night, was sitting at the head of the table, eating a stack of fluffy waffles. He had clumsily poured syrup all over them, so that the plate slightly resembled the soiled wading pool that was the street outside.

Perched on Jem's left, her hand on his shoulder was Aunt Alexandra, a soft look on her face I rarely had seen before. Atticus was kneeling on Jem's other side holding a red cloth napkin. Dancing light in the kitchen told me Calpurnia was working there. I took a few steps back, feeling like some unwanted intruder.

"Oh- hey Jem," I croaked. "You're all waked up then?"

"'Morning, Scout," he said. "Didja miss me?"

Did I miss him? Of course! I had thought he was going to die! I told him just that.

Atticus leaned over and whispered in Jem's ear, loud enough so that I could hear him too. "I told you she was worried, Jem."

"'Course I was worried!" I squealed. "I was right 'fraid you were gonna die, and I didn't know what the hell was going on, someone killed Bob Ewell, and Mr. Tate didn't know who dunnit, and maybe it was you he thought . . . ." I trailed off at the looks on the faces of the adults. Jem, however, was trying to skewer a waffle one-handed, and wasn't paying me any mind.

"I wasn't bout to die!" he said through a mouthful of waffle. "God Almighty, Scout!"

"Well you was out like a light, not moving at all, and you looked pretty dead to me, your arm was all like this . . . "I demonstrated. "He snapped it, didn't he? Golly! That musta hurt!"

Jem scowled at me. Now that I was reasonably assured that _he,_ for one, hadn't changed at all through last night's events, I gave up on him and turned to my errand.

"Atticus?" I said. He laid the napkin on Jem's lap, and looked up.

"Scout?"

"Ah, well, Atticus, could I use a piece of paper maybe, and a pen?"

"What for?" he inquired, looking at me, his tired eyes glinting knowingly.

"Writin'," I muttered vaguely. Clearly Jem hadn't learned a thing yet about what happened last night with Boo, and I didn't feel the need to enlighten everyone now.

"Look on my desk," he said. "Don't use my good pen unless you really have to, and in that case, you'd best return it."

"Yes sir," I said, knowing that Boo really wouldn't care if I wrote with a nice pen or not. I grabbed a few leafs of paper in case I messed up, and one of the pens Atticus wouldn't care about. I trotted back to the front of the house, and sat down on the porch. I put the pen to the paper.

_Dear Boo,_ I began, and then realized that was rude. I crumpled up the paper, glad that I'd brought extra. I started over.

_Dear Mister Arthur,_

_Thank you so much for saving Jem and me. That was the nicest thing someone's ever done for me maybe. You saved our lives. If Jem was here, he'd be mighty thankful too, except he isn't supposed to-_ I carefully restrained myself from writing 'aint'- _know anything about last night yet cause he only waked up just now. I feel so bad. I reckon you're a really nice neighbor, and you've done so much, like giving us those little soap dolls, and the gum, and the watch and what not, and giving me that blanket that one time. You were so sneaky, I didn't even see you. But saving our lives is the best thing you've done yet, and I can't think of any way to thank you enough. I want to give you something fancy and pretty, but I don't got anything fancy or pretty enough. I don't reckon anyone does. I can't even write anything that sounds nice enough for you. I just can't write good enough, I guess. But I suppose Atticus would say it comes from the heart, and it does. Thank you with all my heart. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here to write this. So thank you for that._

I paused. It was awkward and ungainly, with many grammatical errors, but somehow it seemed right. I practiced my signature on the discarded paper a few times, before closing:

_Sincerely,_

_Jean Louise Finch_

I hoped he knew who that was- maybe I should start over and write my actual name, not my formal one? But I didn't want to rewrite it all, so I added in parentheses _(Scout). _Just the way it was, so many ages of the Earth ago, when we had left the note in the knothole. And I thought of the time the three of us, me, Jem, and Dill, had tried to leave him a letter. None of those letters had gone through. But this one would.

I folded up the letter, and wrote in my neatest handwriting _To Arthur Radley._ It looked plain. It needed a picture. But what should I draw? Suddenly I remembered my words last night . . . . "Well, it'd be sort of like shootin' a mockingbird, wouldn't it?"

Next to the word _Radley_ I drew a clumsy little bird, with a few musical notes coming out of its mouth. I remembered a distant faraway time when Dill had tried to explain composing music to me: "It's like a bunch of little O's on lines . . . each O is a mouth, and each mouth has drool comin' out of the corner. 'Cept sometimes the drool is goin' up cuz they just don't know how to drool correct." A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth as I put the finishing touches on my bird. I stood up, and looked around. The sun was now steaming out the watery street, so that all that was left of my wading pool was an inch of red sludge. I frowned at it, and then set off to the Radley house.

I slowly pushed open the gate, listening to it creak, remembering that night, maybe it was centuries ago, when we had spit on it trying to sneak in. I walked up to the porch. I had stood here last night, watching the world unfold through Boo's eyes. Now, no revelation came. I didn't need one.

I stood on the porch a little while, watching the air waver around the edges of the neighboring houses, thinking. I thought about how appropriate the mockingbird was. It all came back to the little bird, so beautiful, so innocent. . . .

I heard the door open in my dreaming. Part of me thought it was Boo, that what I had written in the letter I could now tell him in person. But the other part, the bigger, sensible part, was warning me. Calpurnia had said Nathan Radley was the meanest man God ever blew life into. He had a shotgun. He was not afraid to hurt me. Slowly, I turned around.

"Jean. Louise. Finch!" a voice exploded above me. It was not Boo's. He articulated the words to a ridiculous degree, so that the consonants popped at me like little sparklers. "What are you doing on my porch?"

I looked up into the scowling face of Nathan Radley. He wasn't holding the shotgun, but his eyes were flaming daggers."H-hey, Mr. Nathan . . . ." I trailed off. I was sure dead.

"What do you want, Scout?" he said irritably.

"I . . . I . . ." The words escaped me. Saying something eloquent right now would be very helpful, but nothing came. "Well . . . what I was really aimin' to do was give this letter to . . . Mr. Arthur?" It was all I could do to stop my voice from going high-pitched as I said his name.

"What is it?"

"Well . . . see, he, well, he was real nice to Jem and me, and Dill too I guess, all these years, and I know you didn't like him to, but really why not? Cuz it was awful kind, and what he's done for us, he's nicer than any other neighbor on this street, nicer than Ms. Maudie even." I stopped. I was rambling. I quickly composed myself. "So I guess what I wanted was to give him this here note. To say thank you so much." I held it out to him. I could see the white corners shaking.

"So . . . please? Would you give it to him? For me and Jem? That would be a real nice favor." I felt I wasn't doing enough for the situation. "You don't know near how much it would mean to me, Mr. Nathan sir. It would be something right special." I held out my hand a little further, knowing my eyes were pleading of him, beseeching. My memory traveled back to that inky night, when the mob gathered outside the jail . . . just talking then had saved us. Would it save me now?

It was like an eternity, where all faded to shades of grey and black, just the bright white rectangle in my grubby hand. I waited, watching his face, trying to read the expression in his eyes. Finally, he stretched out his hand and took the letter. He held it to the light, looking at the little bird.

"I'll give it to him, Scout."

"Aw, thanks Mr. Nathan, God I-"

"Now run home. Get." he said. The momentary bond between us unraveled, fading at the ends into nothing. I slowly backed away, then turned tail and fled from the Radley house. I swung through the gate and into the street again, feeling the murk sucking at heels. When I was safely in front of my house, I held my breath inside me. Nathan Radley was still standing on the porch, a solitary figure holding the white shape that was the letter. As I watched, he put it in his pocket, turned on his heels, and disappeared into the house.

Could I trust him to give the letter to Boo? Would this mean, horrible man bend to a little girl's request? Had he lied? Would Boo know?

Reason said that Boo would never get the letter, that I could keep on hoping all I wanted, but it wouldn't be no good. But sometimes reason is wrong. And when it is, you can tell. I knew then. All folks are nice once you get to know them. Maybe even Nathan Radley. Maybe he could find it in him to heed my request.

Somehow, I knew he would.


End file.
